


honey and milk under your tongue

by brucespringsteen



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (Very Slight), Come Eating, Dom/sub Undertones, Fluff and Smut, Humiliation, M/M, Semi-established relationship, Titty Fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26458186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brucespringsteen/pseuds/brucespringsteen
Summary: Jaskier huffs, nearly defeated. “I don’t—"Geralt takes hold of Jaskier’s ass and pulls him forward, adjusting him accordingly.-Jaskier fucks Geralt’s tits.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 21
Kudos: 280
Collections: Geraskier Kink Bingo





	honey and milk under your tongue

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in approx. 3 hours so use that information and judge this accordingly 
> 
> this is also my very first fill for [geraskier kink bingo](https://twitter.com/BingoKink) for titty fucking on card b <3

Jaskier huffs, nearly defeated. “I don’t—" 

Geralt takes hold of Jaskier’s ass and pulls him forward, adjusting him accordingly. His dick—wet, red, hard, delicious like the candy that he buys for Jaskier to suck on whenever he can spare the coin because it serves to shut him up for a few hours at least—slaps against Geralt’s chest, right between his titties.

“Like this,” he says, gruff, thick with hot want that blossoms into warm affection when Jaskier gives him a quick, crooked grin that makes him seem incredibly boyish. He takes hold of Jaskier’s cock in a loose grip, creating a tunnel for Jaskier to fuck in to that’s slick with the sweat of his palm.

Jaskier moves, slowly, one single thrust that lights him up from the inside, it seems, and turns him into a starburst of pleasure. One hand is gripping the headboard and the other is holding the borrowed undershirt up and out of his way, balling the fabric just above his bellybutton and the trail of hair that leads downward. Geralt thinks he looks like sin: raw, unadulterated, innocent and ruddy-cheeked and ready to be wrecked. Geralt wants to pop his cherry in the most animalistic way, even though this is far from being the first time they've come together. 

“Oh,” he says, breathes, wide-eyed and in awe. He laughs, the same as he does when they stop for an early evening and he slips off his boots and walks barefoot through a field of flowers, cackling as the dandelions tickle his skin. “ _Oh._ ”

Geralt smiles, pets across Jaskier’s thigh with his other hand. He’s almost hairless this high up, nothing except dark peach fuzz that tickles Geralt's callouses. He watches Jaskier, flitting his eyes from Jaskier’s abraded face and the pleasure that’s flicking across his slackened expression, and then to Jaskier’s cock, proportional to his large, hairy body, fucking into his closed fist slowly, drily, like he's afraid to want it as much as he does for fear that it'll be ripped away from him. 

Which—Geralt would _never_. He would give Jaskier the world; that thought used to terrify him, but now it's as routine as the sun falling below the horizon only to rise up again the following morning. Guaranteed. 

“You like it?” Geralt asks, caressing Jaskier’s leg. There’s so much of Jaskier, and Geralt wants to have him all, wants to step inside of his body.

Jaskier swallows, hard, and nods. There’s a tipsy, half-drunk grin on his kissed-bruised lips, and he’s intoxicated without having taken a single sip of ale. “Feels good,” he says, breathlessly. His hand falls from the headboard, lands on Geralt’s head; he through Geralt’s hair, knotting the fresh-washed strands around his fingers in order to get a solid grip. “Feels nice.”

Geralt tightens his hold, just a little, just to see the way Jaskier's pink skin turns white under his touch. “Only nice?”

Jaskier sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and bites. His eyes, wide and blown, flutter from Geralt’s face to his chest. “Your tits,” he says, tries to say, instead of answering. He drops his undershirt down to rest just atop his hips and moves both hands to Geralt’s chest. He cups Geralt’s pecs, rubs his thumb against his nipples; the callouses on his fingers from his lute are good-rough, the kind of abrasive sensation that feels almost too nice, and Geralt feels played like Jaskier’s beloved instrument. He wonders if he’ll sing. “Can I fuck them?”

“Oil.”

Eagerly, moaning like a whore at the prospect, Jaskier reaches for the vial of honeysuckle-scented oil and hands it to Geralt as he moves down a bit, straddling Geralt’s waist to allow him room to work. Geralt pulls the stopper and spills the oil on his skin, rubbing it in widely, thickly; he’s had burn on his tits from the frisson of someone humping his chest and he would rather not risk it again. Especially with Jaskier.

He plugs the vial and tosses it to the side, out of reach but nearby. They’ll need it again, anyway, but later, because the night is young and Geralt plans to have fun with Jaskier before the morning rises and beckons them on the road once more.

“Come back,” he says, holding his hands up to help Jaskier balance as he knee-walks up Geralt’s chest. “You’ve done this?”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Nobody ever said yes,” he says, distracted. He can’t stop looking at Geralt’s chest, glistening with the oil in the light from the blazing fire, from the candles trembling in the air around them. The rain outside rages on, thundering like a monster on a rampage, but here, inside, with Jaskier on top of him, hot and sweaty and stupid with the fervor, in love and so loud with it that it's becoming increasingly hard to ignore, Geralt feels alive and seen and splayed open all on his own accord.

Geralt rubs the tip of Jaskier’s prick, digging his fingertip just inside the slit, eliciting a hitch of breath. “All you’ve got to do is ask, Jaskier.” He smiles, infatuated with the bard on top of him. They’ve known one another for some time now; Jaskier annoys him like no other ever has before but, still, he adores this bard, this kid with too-big blue eyes and a grin that’s a little dirtier than it seems at first glance, and he doesn’t think there’s anything he wouldn’t give Jaskier. All Jaskier has to do is ask.

It’ll do no good for Jaskier to know that, though. He’s already got an impatient streak in him that threatens to run Geralt into an early grave—the thought of Jaskier knowing the impact he truly has on Geralt is one that he will keep to himself. That’s his, just his, and nobody is going to take it from him.

Jaskier’s lashes tremble in the same moment that his thighs do, too, and he nudges forward a bit, settling the length of his cock between the crease of Geralt’s tits. It fits good, fits well, like it belongs, red and wet, shining with the oil on the underside and so pretty that Geralt almost foregoes this moment for holding Jaskier in his mouth until he comes instead.

He bends upward and takes the head of Jaskier’s cock into his mouth, suckling at the head, at the precum there that tastes like thick honey and milk on his tongue, till his core begins to burn and he has to fall backward.

Jaskier makes a punched-out noise that comes from deep within his chest and ruts forward. The drag of the underside of his cock against Geralt’s oily chest must feel good because he does it again, and again, and again, biting his knuckle and holding the hem of his undershirt out of his way so he can watch himself go at it, ever the filthy deviant with a heart more pure than an angel's.

Geralt folds his arms behind his head, propping himself up a bit so he can watch Jaskier work. It’s pitiful to see, kind of—Jaskier’s fucking into nothing, essentially, just slicking his cock up with nowhere to put it; there’s no friction, no tightness, nothing except the drag that lasts for a fleeting moment before he has to do it again and again and again, the buildup of pleasure too slow to be anything substantial, so close but just out of reach.

A smirk curls up the corners of Geralt’s lips. “Good?”

Jaskier sobs, brokenly, and lurches forward, grabbing for Geralt’s wrists. “Help me,” he says, begs, pulling and putting Geralt’s arms and hands where he wants them. “I can’t do it myself.”

Geralt tightens his arms. “Ask me,” he says, deeply. “Ask me nicely.”

There’s tears gathering in Jaskier’s eyes; Geralt knows because he can smell them. Jaskier’s cheeks are red, the same color as the tip of his dick, and his lips are raw, almost bloody from being bitten. He looks wrecked. Geralt laughs. He hasn’t even fucked Jaskier yet and he’s already this lamentable. How wonderful.

“Help me, please.” Jaskier’s voice is small, deep. He draws in a breath that puffs his chest out. “Help me come. I can’t do it without you.”

Geralt melts. “That’s a good boy, asking for what you need,” he says, bringing Jaskier close, till the head of his dick is flush with his chin. “I’ll give it to you. Like this, okay?”

He shows Jaskier to hold the palm of his hand flat atop his cock while Geralt pushes his tits up on either side, creating a valley of slick, soft flesh for Jaskier to fuck in to. Jaskier exhales on a wobbly whimper as he drags his cock out of the crevice they’ve created till only the tip is in. He pushes forward, all the way, and Geralt flops his tongue out, licking the tip, relishing the taste and Jaskier’s giggly, wheezing cry of, “ _Fuck_!”

Geralt smiles, pushing his tits up into a deeper, tighter valley for Jaskier. He has the split moment thought of playing with his own nipples and tweaking them, knowing that he’s so sensitive there that he could shoot off, something that became fact after the trials, but he tosses that idea from his mind. This is for Jaskier. He’ll get his later, putting Jaskier face down and ass up and sticking him deep.

Jaskier’s huffy, broken gasps draw Geralt’s attention. Enraptured, Geralt watches Jaskier fuck between his tits, watches the way his mouth drops when he puts his free hand in Geralt’s hair and leans forward, getting more leverage to go faster, harder.

“That’s it, Jaskier. You’re doing so good.” Geralt suckles particularly hard on the head with the next pass, chuckling when Jaskier almost doubles over with the zigzag of sensation. “You’re so hot.”

“Shut up.”

“Or what?” Geralt grins. “You’ll come too fast?”

Jaskier whines. “Yes! And I’d rather not come yet!” He fucks forward, hard, and bumps his balls against Geralt’s nipple. “So, please, be quiet. Let me come from fucking your wonderful tits.”

“And not from my wonderful words? Come on, Jask. I thought you wanted me to talk more.”

“ _Geralt!”_

Geralt laughs, but does as Jaskier said and hushes. He keeps his mouth open and wet, licking Jaskier’s slit, pushing just inside and chasing it when it’s taken from him, and he’s in awe of it all, really, when Jaskier’s pretty face screws up, eyes shut tight and lips parted, as he starts to come with a jerk and stuttered moan.

Jaskier paints Geralt’s chest and face with his spend. There’s so much of it; it smells hot and milky, and Geralt licks it off his lips as much as he can. It tastes delicious. Perhaps tomorrow night he’ll have Jaskier put him on his knees and cradle his jaw, fuck his throat raw and come in his mouth.

He lets Jaskier be for a moment, choosing to instead study Jaskier much of the same he has been doing all night. Jaskier is so— _Jaskier_ , and that entails a multitude of variable incarnations of the same person. Each rakes at Geralt’s nerves in a different way, but, gods, he _adores_ this fucking bard more than anything with a ferocity so sharp that it makes him sick.

Except Roach, probably. Maybe.

Geralt slaps Jaskier on the thigh, snatching his attention. “Lick me clean,” he tells Jaskier, laughing at the dopey, half-lidded grin Jaskier gives him. “Hurry. Before it cools.”

Jaskier moves off Geralt and rearranges himself on the bed, sprawled and sticky and sated; his unique scent is muffled, amalgamating with Geralt's and their shared arousal, permeates the air heavily. He finds one of Geralt’s hands and interlaces their fingers. “Thank you,” he says, sweetly, as he licks his cum off Geralt’s chest and face, kissing behind reverently as he goes. “Thank you, thank you.”

Geralt pulls Jaskier into a lazy, sloppy kiss when he’s finished eating up his jizz. He licks inside Jaskier’s mouth, curling his tongue around Jaskier’s; Jaskier sighs and relaxes against Geralt’s side, throwing himself half atop Geralt’s body and twitching until he's comfortable.

“You’re so fucking cute,” Geralt says, half-growling, against Jaskier’s lips. Jaskier laughs and tucks himself against Geralt’s side, fitting curves of hardness and contours of softness like stitches holding clothes together.

“Cute is not the word I would use.”

“And what word would you like me to use?” Geralt asks. He grabs the meat of Jaskier’s thigh and presses his fingernails in, hoping to leave marks. He loves to see himself on his bard. “Sexy, evocative, arousing, intriguing?”

Jaskier presses his forehead into Geralt’s shoulder and groans. “Please shut up,” he says, but his voice is weak and there’s an acute whine under his breath that tells Geralt that he wants him to keep talking.

“Amorous, suggestive, stunning? I can go on and on, Jaskier.” He presses a kiss to the top of Jaskier’s head. “But I won’t.” He curls his arms around Jaskier, as tight as he can. Through Jaskier’s wrinkled undershirt, he can feel Jaskier’s heartbeat. It’s lovely. “Get some rest. I’ll fuck you in a few hours.”

Jaskier, sighing, reaches and cradles Geralt’s cock through his leather breeches; it’s the only way he likes to sleep, as odd as that is. “I can’t wait,” he says, and begins to dose, face turned toward Geralt, and Geralt can’t pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with this bard but he’s glad he did because he can’t imagine his life any other way now that he’s got a taste of what it means to be happy, if only for a little bit.

**Author's Note:**

> [twitter](https://twitter.com/geraskefers)


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